


Aftereffect

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-03
Updated: 2010-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda for spn 5x16. This night has happened before -- he remembers this. It was the fourth of July, and Sam begged and begged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftereffect

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Pieces of dialogue from the episode by Dabb & Loflin. Thank you to sophiap for the quick and thorough beta.

  
The echo of a bang, or a crash, snaps away. Sam isn't sure he heard it at all. It's a little like hearing someone call your name in a crowded space, but when you turn, no one's waving at you, no one's looking at you. He's standing on the side of a road, the damp asphalt gleaming under the starlight. The road stretches away into the dark, and there's a kind of loudness to the silence, only fields with wind whispering over them, the sweet smell of wet mud and grass, a trace of thick heat in the cooling air. The scent and taste of beer is gone. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep in the motel room. If Dean wanted to get smashed, Sam didn't want him to do it alone.

Now there's only the road. Sam turns things over in his head, wondering why the crash-bang and flash of light is teasing the edges of his brain again.

When the lanky figure walks towards him, it takes Sam a few seconds to understand, because it's dark and his brain registers the kid as familiar and yet completely wrong. That's Dean headed his way along the road, but Dean doesn't look like that anymore -- Dean is not this thin with limbs and body still getting into proportion with each other, his face is not this open and unlined.

The weight of a box is in Sam's arms, fireworks sticking up from it like the colorful stalks of a plant. He gets it, this is a dream. He's sleeping off an alcohol buzz and may or may not have a hangover in the morning. In the meanwhile, his brain's decided for whatever obscure reasons of its own -- and Sam could untangle exactly why, there's no surprise in this, Dean shows up in Sam's dreams all the time -- that Sam should be dreaming about his big brother.

This night has happened before -- he remembers this. It was the fourth of July, and Sam begged and begged. Dad holed up with a gash in his leg after he and Dean killed a Gulon, too exhausted to do much more than mumble a few orders to Dean about doing a walk-through of the area to make sure all the creepies were gone and to get the Impala's tank refilled and the oil checked. The heat held tension until it practically hummed against Sam's skin. Bored and restless and needing to get out of the stuffy, tiny, dingy apartment, to break that boredom with something that didn't leave him shaking, mouth dry, something that didn't involve blood. To do something the way regular kids might do it.

"Come on, let's go," Sam says, like he said it then. It's his dream, a good one -- he might as well play along. He walks into the field, puts the box on the ground, and starts pulling out fireworks.

"Dad's going to tear me a new one if he finds out we did this." Dean looks down at Sam. "You know that, right? I'm not taking a hit for this one. If he asks, you snuck out, I went after you, this was all your idea and I tried to keep you from blowing your stubborn ass off by accident."

Sam almost laughs, a warmth spreading in his chest as he gets to his feet. With all the changes, some things didn't change. "Got your lighter?" He says.

"Yeah." Dean's got this look on his face Sam knows well, a roll of his eyes, a twist to his mouth.

At the time he thought Dean didn't want to be there and agreed only to stop his whining. Now that he's looking at Dean with the years peeled back, this younger, too-skinny Dean, Sam reads the way that twist to his mouth twitches as if he's holding back a grin, the way Dean stands with feet planted firmly, he's not transferring his weight around, biding his time to get away.

Dean pulls out the lighter, flicks it open.

"Fire 'em up," says Sam.

The sparks flare, shadows dancing over Dean's face, and the sky goes full of bursts of color and light. There's nothing hidden on his brother's face now -- Sam can't remember the last time he's seen Dean like this, full-on wide grin and lit within from wonder. He's not even trying to hide it.

Sam knows what happens next, and now he counts back to when he last hugged his brother, realizes how long it's been. He does what he did then, except his head doesn't land against Dean's chest, he towers over him, and Sam can't quite figure out where to put his arms. Dean's arms go around him, a firm, warm, quick grasp, but Sam thinks how there's too little of this Dean, the shoulders too narrow, his frame too light. Sam swallows because now he knows he wasn't scared enough, every time Dean went out with Dad on hunts, even though at the time, Dean looked as big as Dad to him, bulky and powerful. The top of this Dean's head fits well below Sam's collarbone, against his chest.

It's a comfort being able to hug this Dean, with the fragility made physical, made literal, strange and yet growing too familiar. This lacks the discord of Dean from now muscular and solid, but wearing down from the inside out, collapsing in on himself.

For a moment there's the bursts of color in the sky and his brother's smile and then there's a bang and burst of fire in his head --

And he's sitting next to Stephanie Reilly at the dining room table, with the rich smell of turkey making his mouth water, and Mr. Reilly asking him questions.

* * *

He feels the insertion of his soul back into his body only after the pain is over, with the sense that the process hurt enough to make him scream with it, yet it's already over when he wakes and sucks the breath into his lungs.

That's familiar, too.

* * *

After Dean closes the motel room door after him, Sam can't move. He stands with his arms hanging at his sides, staring at the curve of the trash can's rim like it _matters_ and reaches into himself for a piece of rage and indignation, because Sam knows enough now to recognize if he can get angry, this won't hurt as much. But all he's got is a soft hollow spot in the center of his chest.

Sam goes over to the trashcan, bends over, and pulls the amulet out, letting it spin at the end of its cord. He straightens, then catches it against his palm.

It's about God, it's about Castiel, it's about them losing their last hope -- Sam lines these thoughts up but he knows it's about him. The way Dean looked at him before he dropped the amulet, Dean knows he knows it. This is how Dean speaks at times -- Sam's got years learning the nuances to a car door slam, the flick of a wrist to turn up the radio volume, a can of soda opened with a hiss in place of an answer.

He balls the amulet cord up in his hand, and is halfway to putting it into his pocket before he stops. He opens his fingers and lets the amulet dangle before Sam loops it around his neck. He tucks the amulet under his shirt out of sight, zips his bag closed, and picks it up.

Sam takes a few steps towards the door, then halts again, thumb rubbing against the ridges on the bag's strap. He reaches up with his free hand and tugs on the cord at his neck so the amulet hangs outside his shirt. It falls higher on his chest than it does on Dean's.

In all the time Dean was in Hell, this was something Sam never did. He wore the amulet (not at first, but after a while) tucked out of sight beneath his t-shirt, the metal cool and sharp against his chest. But never out where anyone could see.

Sam picks up his bag, thinking of the colors playing over his brother's upturned face in Heaven as the fireworks popped and dazzled over the trees.

  
~end


End file.
